Pele - My Life and the Beautiful Game: The Autobiography of Pele

One of my former teammates on the Cosmos, Peruvian midfielder Ramon Mifflin said, I never see anybody sleep like Pel. Once, when we play for Santos, I see him sleep from Brussels to Tokyo. Twenty-six hours, half a world, Pel never opens his eyes.

After traveling with Pel for many years, Im not so sure he sleeps so much as simply shuts his eyes to close off the rest of the world that wants to touch him, talk to him or get an autograph on an airline napkin. It is sometimes the only way to be alone, he told me. Very simple to close the eyes.

The night before Pel played his final professional game, I stopped by his room in our hotel to hang out and see how he was feeling. I wondered what he could be thinking with just a 90 minute game for the championship standing between 22 years of glory and retirement. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a lime green jacket and a sphinx like smile.

Sometimes, Pel can look a thousand years old. He acted as though I had asked him a difficult riddle and he didnt answer right away. While I was waiting for him to speak, I noticed his hands, so black against the cream colored bedspread. For a man who has made his living with his feet, they are abnormally calloused, cool and hard when he grasps yours, as though the millions of handshakes have worn them smooth as stone.

When I retired from Santos, it was different, he said. I still play many exhibitions, still busy with the football. Now it is really the finish. I will stop playing and that part of me He paused, smiling again, That part will die. But its okay because another life will be born. In my mind, it will be hard. I think someday I will wake up and get my things and go to the stadium because this is what I do all of my life. Now, I must remember to go to the office. I dont know how I will like this, to sign papers, to speak on the telephone, because 22 years of my life is professional soccer. I have been very lucky. If I could not have been a footballer, maybe I would be a house-painter. Maybe work in the factory, work in the shop. I would have the same life as everybody else in the town and I would only have tried to do my best job, wherever I am. For me, it has been simple. I never wanted to be anything but the best I could be.

This foreword for my friend and former teammate, Pel, is not about his technical skill on the ball, his explosive first step or his ability in the air. Better writers than me have documented his legendary prowess on the field, his meteoric rise to international fame and his ability to delight crowds around the world.

No, my finger on the pulse of Pel is two-fold.

He carries himself with a grace, humility and dignity that is unparalleled. He has a way and a manner of touching all who come in contact with him and leaving them knowing they made a personal connection with greatness. He is selfless and unassuming, proud without any sense of entitlement. As a friend, there is no better one than Pel.

As a teammate and on the field he was a fearless warrior. Yes, he played with a sense of joy, a mischievous smile and a smiling goal celebration, but on the field, in the game, he was tough as nails. He was the ultimate teammate, always ready to do whatever it took for us to win. Although to the world watching, it was all about Pel, to Pel, it was never about him. It was about each of us and the team.

When Pel played his final game, half for Santos and half for the Cosmos with 77,000 fans selling out Giants Stadium, the game ended with the rain teeming down. I, with the rest of his teammates, lifted Pel on our shoulders to take him around the stadium for a victory lap one last time. As the crowd roared and we ended our lap around the field, Pel whispered, one more time...

For Pel, there will always be one more time...

Shep Messing